Rain lashed her bedroom windows, and Nat tossed and turned, trying to set her emotions about Barb and Trooper Shorney aside. She had to focus on who was trying to frame her for murder. She reviewed the facts for the second time, then turned over, restless. The bedside clock read 5:17 in glowing turquoise numbers. Then she noticed the tiny red light blinking on her answering machine. She had forgotten to check her messages when she came in. She turned on the bedside lamp, squinted against its brightness, propped herself up, and hit Play.
"Hello, we're Food Data and we're interested in knowing how often you eat in local restaurants-"
Nat hit Delete, remembering why she never checked her messages- because they were as full of crap as her snail mail and email. The next message was equally useless, but the third was from a voice she almost recognized.
"Professor Greco, this is Willie Potts, from the prison. I got your number online. You asked me about the write-up on Simon Upchurch. I checked the records and I never got one. There's your answer but keep it on the down. Say yo to Angus."
Nat hit Play again, then shifted upright as the message replayed. It confirmed that Graf had been lying when he said that he and Ron Saunders had brought Upchurch in for a write-up. So why had they brought him in? Given that money and drugs were entering the picture, Upchurch may have been involved in drug dealing with the C.O.s. Maybe they were supplying him with OxyContin and he sold it to his fellow inmates.
Nat didn't know what to do. She couldn't take her suspicions to prison officials, who were busy walling off crime scenes. She couldn't tell the police, because they suspected her of killing one of their own. She thought about calling Angus, but he'd be asleep and was stuck in the hospital anyway. She was on her own. If anybody was going to figure out who was behind this, it would have to be her. She wasn't used to being a capella, but maybe it was time to start. Nobody was going to save her hide but her. She jumped out of bed and hit the floorboards. She had some research to do, and there was only one logical place to start.
Book smart, huh?
A half hour later, she was going downstairs in the elevator, dressed in jeans, clogs, a black turtleneck, and the last coat she owned in the world, a blue down jacket from college. In a purse was the cash she'd collected from her jewelry box, old wallets, leftover clutches, pockets, and couch cushions. She had $562.36 to catch a killer. She hit the lobby and looked beyond the security desk to the revolving door. The thunderstorm must have been passing, dotting the glass with only a light rain. The sidewalk was empty, and the press gone. Evidently, the First Amendment was sleeping in.
She went to the desk, where Bill was dozing over his finished crossword, his chin folding into his hand beside an empty Dunkin Donuts cup. He'd taken off his red hat, revealing a balding head with stray strands of gray. Nat whispered, "Bill?"
"I'm awake," he said, popping off his hand with a start. He reached automatically for his cap, but Nat waved him into stillness.
"Can you help me out? I need a car and I can't rent one because I don't have a license. Can I please borrow your car, just for the day? I'll pay you."
"Okay, professor. But you gotta give me a ride home." Bill checked his watch sleepily. "I get off in ten minutes."
"Thanks so much. By the way, you got a cell phone?"
"Sure, but I never use it."
Perfect.
An hour later, Nat had dropped Bill off at his apartment and hit the expressway, traveling out of the city in his underpowered tan Kia, which, judging from the smell of its interior, ran on cigarette smoke. Old newspapers, a crushed Winston pack, and toll receipts littered the dirty floor, but beside her on the passenger seat sat her fresh supplies: a cardboard cup holder with a hot coffee, a sesame bagel with butter, and a MapQuest printout. The borrowed cell phone was recharging in the cigarette lighter, though Nat would have sworn it made the Kia go even slower.
She motored south under a sky swept of clouds, brightening bottom to top in shades of pale pink, dark rose, then rich blue. Rain had washed away most of the snow beside the road, revealing patches of muddy brown. She checked the smudgy rearview mirror to make sure no black pickups were following her, but traffic was light and apparently innocuous. She felt reasonably safe, in a car that no bad guy could identify as hers.
In time she exited the highway, entered the city of Chester, and drove through its rundown neighborhoods, looking for the right street. Brick rowhouses lined blocks strewn with debris, and shutters hung lopsided on windows insulated with Saran Wrap and covered with iron bars. A hand-lettered beware of dog sign sat stuck in a door, next to a child's drawing of Santa Claus in Crayola colors. Trash cans had been overturned, and old cars sat parked along the streets. She found the house, parked the Kia, and straightened the black NASCAR cap she'd bought as a makeshift disguise at a Wawa convenience store. She checked the rearview and noted that the cuts on her cheeks had grown faint. Things were looking up, if she didn't dwell on that impending homicide charge thing.
She got out of the car, locked it, crossed to the house, and knocked tentatively on the front door, which was opened by an older African American woman who peered timidly around the side of the door. Her eyes were a milky brown and deep-set, cold and flickering with caution, in a full face. Her hair was a straightened and thin gray and she wore it to her chin, with sparse bangs cut midway across her forehead, like a septuagenarian Betty Boop.
"My name is Nat Greco. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for the residence of Simon Upchurch."
"Buried him Thursday." The old woman frowned, leaning closer to the door.
"I'm sorry. I was at the prison the day he was killed. I wondered if I could come in and talk to you." Nat raised a white bag from Wawa. "I brought some doughnuts."
"I got diabetes."
Or not. "Maybe if I could come in, we could talk. It wouldn't take long."
The woman opened the door a crack and eyed Nat up and down. "You're jes 'a lil' thing."
"Thanks." I think. "It's cold. You must be cold, with the door open."
"I'm warmer 'n you." The old woman smiled crookedly, showing spaces between her teeth, and Nat laughed with her.
"I'm here because I wanted to talk to you about Simon. Was your son?"
"My brother's. I raised him, but he wasn't mine.”
“Could I come in? Please? It's important."
The front door opened a crack, and after a minute, the woman unlocked the barred door and propped it open with a hand. "Thanks," Nat said, stepping inside.
Chapter 30
The woman wore a maroon fleece top with a pair of dark stretch pants, and was short and sturdy as she powered in terrycloth slippers through a darkened living room stuffed with couches, mismatched chairs, several wooden end tables, three old TVs, and four rolled-up rugs. Nat almost tripped on a footstool on her way into a small kitchen, where the woman showed her a wooden chair.
"You can sit here," she said, looping a thick finger around the top rung of the other chair.
"Thanks." Nat set the doughnut bag on the table, only half of which was cleared. The other half held stacks of white plates, two napkin holders, and three sets of identical glass salt-and-pepper shakers, restaurant style. Extra dishes, salad plates, and glasses of various sizes lined the kitchen counters. It was like living in a warehouse, but eccentricity wasn't Nat’s concern. She herself had a To-Be-Read room. "I'm Nat Greco."
"I remember."
"I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't tell you it."
Nat couldn't get her students to participate, either. She wished for a Clinique mustache.
"You don't look like a cop killer," the woman said abruptly.
"You knew who I was?"
"I watch TV. I keep up. You think I don't?"
"Okay, then you know."
"Take off that ugly hat. Take it off."
Nat complied, taking off the hat and setting it next to the doughnuts. "If you knew who I was, why'd you let me in?"